


Babylon

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Blake's nightmare come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babylon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Evil Overlord ficathon.

The domes burned in the distance, black smoke billowing up to fill the sky and drop ash. The ground was soaked with a mixture of water and blood, and his boots sank in the mud as Blake slowly made his way through the battlefield towards the command tent. The ground was littered with the dying and the dead, the former moaning and reaching out as he passed. He ignored their cries; he had no mercy left to give.

When he reached the tent, he paused just outside the entrance and peered inside. His generals were waiting for him, gathered around the kneeling captive, gloating. Avon stood apart from them, his face pale in the muted light of the tent, his black leather outfit immaculate-- he was the only one who did not start when Blake walked inside.

He gave Avon a cursory glance, then walked over to his captive; his generals parted, giving him a good view. It was a sight to see. She was soaking wet, her dress filthy and torn, her hair, longer than he had ever seen it, was tangled.

"Servalan." Blake said the name quietly, letting it slide off his tongue.

She smiled, slowly, like a predator sighting her prey. "Roj Blake. It's been a long time."

"Not long enough."

"Oh, what a horrible thing to say." She lowered her lashes, her smile turning flirtatious. "I thought you were better than that, Blake. You aren't going to be like your men, are you? Gloating at my misfortune."

"You brought it on yourself." Blake made his way across the tent and poured himself a glass of water. He drank it slowly, to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth, and then set down the empty cup. When he turned back to her, she was struggling to her feet.

"You need me." She met his eyes with her own; they were cold, but not as cold as his.

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. I can help you. There are many things—"

"You would betray your men? Your ideals?" A slight tone of sarcasm tinged his voice. He shared a glance with Avon, then walked over to stand in front of her. "And what is it you know, Servalan? What tales will you tell me?"

"I know my generals, how they will react, their weaknesses. I know…" her voice faded way when he pulled his weapon.

"My mother always told me to never trust a liar." He pointed the gun at her head.

She laughed and moved her hand up to push the weapon away.

He shot her; the sound of the weapon drowning out her dying laughter. No one said anything, no one even looked at him; they had stopped questioning him long ago. He reholstered his weapon. "They've surrendered. We begin the final assault in an hour."

He gestured for Avon to follow him. He led Avon to his tent, feeling the tension in his body, the heat roiling his blood. In the darkness of the tent, Avon stared at him warily, like a caged animal waiting for a blow.

He struck out, quickly, and with a single-minded intent. Avon fought; it was in his nature to fight. Blake would not have it any other way, but in the end Avon could not win. He bent Avon over the table, the maps and papers crinkling and tearing, pushed down Avon's leather trousers, and slid into his slick hole. It made him smile to know that Avon made preparations, that he knew the battle was lost long before they'd fought.

Blake held him down against the rough wood, working his hips frantically, raking his nails down Avon's whip-marked back, tearing open the wounds until fresh blood poured from them. Blood and blood and even more blood, there would never be enough, there would always be too much. It roared in his ears and flowed into his eyes, it even flowed from him into Avon.

When he was done, he pushed away and staggered to his bed; he was so tired.

He could hear Avon slowly get to his feet, but he ignored him. Instead, he stared at the small tear in the tent where the weak light tricked through. "I'm going to set the world on fire, Avon. I'm going to make it burn. I'm going to make everything burn." He could practically see it, the flames licking up towards the sky, burning everything in its path, cleaning the world. He grinned at the thought. "It'll burn with my fire. Our fire."

"Ours?" Avon's voice was hoarse.

Blake turned to him. "Yes, of course, ours. You were the one who set me ablaze. First with your gun, then with your sword."

Avon paled when Blake glanced at his crotch.

"You set me on fire." He frowned. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"

"Yes," Avon whispered.

"Then come to bed. Let me warm you."

"You'll burn me."

Blake's smile turned savage. "Of course."

******

He set the world on fire, it burned white hot, he left nothing untouched. And when all that was left was ash, he looked up at the frozen stars, and imagined their destruction.

*****

The whip whistled through the air and landed with a sharp crack on to Avon's bloody back. Disobedience met with punishment, everyone knew that, and only Avon did not heed the lessons.

Blake whipped him until his arm grew tired, then he had his men string Avon up by his arms in the garden. He watched from the window as fat snowflakes fell from the sky, frosting Avon's hair, melting against his skin. The snow beneath Avon's feet was red; that made him smile.

There was a movement behind him and he turned, quickly, his hand going to his weapon. Ah, it was Vila. Only Vila. He relaxed and watched the man scamper from one shadow to another, slowly coming closer, but not too close. Vila looked into his eyes, he was the only one who did these days, not even Avon did anymore, and though he could no longer speak, Blake understood: Avon would die if he stayed out there much longer.

Sometimes, he thought he should burn out Vila's eyes; he had already removed his tongue and hands. Perhaps later, when he no longer needed Vila's eyes, when he grew tired of his gaze.

*****

From the ashes came life and the world blanketed in green.

The generals who were once his allies tried to kill him, but he was smart, he kept his people fat and happy. When the traitors were rooted out, he did not have to lift a finger; his people, terrified as they were of him, tore the generals to shreds.

*****

In Blake's private rooms, Avon was not allowed clothing; the only thing he wore was a white leather collar with a bell.

*****

Every morning after breakfast, Blake would take a walk in the gardens. And every morning, he would go back to his rooms where Avon would be waiting for him.

This day was no different.

Avon leaned against the windowpane, staring out at where Blake had been. It was not a relaxed stance; Blake could see that he was trembling and his hands were clenched in fists. He strode forward and stood next to him, waiting.

Avon turned to him and laid a shaking hand on his arm. "Did you—"

Blake slowly looked over at Avon's pale, sweating face, his eyes bright with pain and hunger. He reached into his pocket and held out a small vial of clear liquid. Avon snatched it up, ripped open the vial and brought it to his lips. His throat worked frantically, swallowing down the drug.

The effect was almost immediate.

The tension left Avon's body and he dropped the vial as the euphoria hit: his skin flushed with color, his cock twitched and filled. Blake touched a nipple with the tip of his finger, it hardened and Avon's eyes fluttered shut.

He gathered Avon into his arms and set him on the bed: Avon spread his thighs and sighed. Later, when the drug had run its course, Avon would be vicious and Blake would have to whip him. But for now he would take advantage of Avon's pliancy. He settled between Avon's spread thighs and pushed two fingers inside of him. Avon moaned, his cock twitching, his hand clenching the sheets—he was beautiful.

He curled his fingers, moving them slowly, lazily, in and out of Avon's body, watching his face contort in pleasure. He made Avon cry out, again and again, made him twist and clench, made him sweat and drip and claw at the sheets. And in the end, he made Avon come, bright pearl drops splattered across his belly and chest. Only then did he take his own pleasure.

Afterwards, he played with the bell on Avon's collar until he drifted off to sleep.

*****

Blake loved history; it gave him such good ideas.

*****

Crucifixion was a slow death; the victims suffocate, slowly, in agony, unable to draw a breath. Blake lined the garden with crosses so that he could watch the passion play from his window.

Avon refused to watch, no matter how many times Blake ordered him.

In the end, Avon experienced it first hand.

*****

It was a rebellion that ended his reign. Blake was not surprised. His life had come full circle; it was fitting somehow. He could have taken the young woman with him, the young woman with fire in her eyes. But in the end he let her shoot him.

He smiled. Oh, how it hurt to smile. How it hurt to see the innocence in her eyes.

The fire would consume her. It always did.


End file.
